a sizeable estate in dire economic times? Why don’t you ask me?’
Back at the cottage, Marianne said she felt restless. She said, gazing out of the sitting-room window at the dramatic fall of land below them, ‘We can unpack any time, can’t we? Look at that blue sky.’
Elinor, coming into the room with a stepladder in order to help her mother hang their own curtains, said, ‘And those clouds.’
‘They’re nothing. They’re blowing away. Anyway, what does getting wet matter? We always got wet at Norland.’
Belle was pulling lengths of battered old damask out of a box to replace Sir John’s brightly patterned ready-made curtains. She said to Marianne, ‘What are you suggesting, darling?’
‘A walk.’
‘A walk,’ Margaret said in tones of disgust.
‘Yes,’ Marianne said, ‘a walk. And you’re coming with me.’
‘I hate walks.’
‘Why d’you want to walk?’ Belle said.
‘I want to see the old house Sir John talked about. The old house in the valley where the old lady lives who never goes out. She sounds like Miss Havisham.’
‘I don’t’, Margaret said, ‘want to see anything.’
Belle regarded the damask. It had once been deep burgundy red. It was now, faded by the sun, irregularly striped with the colour of weak tea. But anything was better than bright blue cotton printed with stylised sunflowers. She said, absently, ‘Lovely, darling.’
‘But I—’ began Margaret.
Belle raised her head. ‘I don’t want Marianne walking alone. Not after the other day. And certainly not till we know our way about.’
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